Page 48 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)
Chapter Twenty-Five
To Elizabeth’s astonishment, the door opened before they could knock, revealing not a servant, but Jane—radiant and unmistakably happy. Mary rushed to join them.
“Jane!” Elizabeth cried, rushing into her sister’s arms.
“I could not wait any longer!” Jane exclaimed, drawing her close. “I arrived only yesterday. Charles brought me to town for wedding clothes—and I bring news!”
“Girls, girls, come! Mrs. Gardiner called, ushering them inside. Warm greetings followed, and the parlor soon hummed with animated chatter. Jane’s arrival was a delightful surprise, but her announcement left Elizabeth truly astonished.
“Mama has insisted we move the wedding forward,” Jane said with a laugh, her cheeks flushed. “She claims spring weddings are all the rage and has persuaded Papa that it must take place by the end of April.”
Maria clapped her hands in delight. “How wonderful! Spring in Hertfordshire is my favorite time of year!”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes alight with amusement. “And what does Papa make of all this?”
“He said that so long as Mama does not redecorate the drawing room again, he will permit it.” Jane smiled. “I believe he is quite content. He and Mr. Bingley have become very fond of one another.”
Elizabeth’s heart warmed further at the mention of her sister’s betrothed. He and Jane truly seemed destined for happiness.
“And there is more,” Mary added. “I am engaged!”
“You are?” Elizabeth repeated, delighted by her sister’s good fortune.
“To Mr. Marcus Finch,” Mary confirmed. “You recall the gentleman. Jane has not yet met him. He is rather intelligent and attentive. I am very happy!”
“Yes, our sister is happier than I’ve ever seen her.” Jane said, beaming. “Perhaps we ought to have a double wedding!”
“That is extraordinary. Oh, I am very pleased to see you all. I have missed my family.”
“Mama wrote to me,” said Mary, retrieving a letter from her pocket. “Jane brought it from Longbourn. Here. You must read it—Mama’s reaction was exactly as you would expect.”
Elizabeth unfolded the letter and read aloud the line Mary indicated with amused disbelief: “‘I am astonished that of all my daughters, it is my plainest who secured such a match. Still, I suppose Mr. Finch must appreciate piety and pianoforte more than beauty.’”
All the ladies dissolved into laughter.
That evening, after supper and once Maria had retired early, fatigued by the journey, the three sisters lingered in Jane’s room, nestled together like they had done as girls.
“You are glowing,” Jane said affectionately, brushing a stray curl from Elizabeth’s brow. “Mary told me Mr. Darcy called here before you left. Is it true what I suspect? Did you see Mr. Darcy in Kent? Has he spoken to you?”
Elizabeth's smile spread slowly, forming a gentle curve of her lips. “He has. And he means to call tomorrow.”
“Lizzy…how did you forgive him?” Jane asked. “After all that happened?”
Elizabeth studied her hands in quiet reflection for a moment.
“It took time,” she admitted at last. “But he offered a sincere apology. How could I do otherwise than forgive him? He showed humility in acknowledging his misunderstanding of the conversation he overheard, and the grave mistake he made by fleeing to London instead of remaining and asking for clarity. He listened when I expressed both my distress—and my own failings. He became not only the man I could love, but one I could trust. He proved himself worthy of forgiveness—and of affection. And…” she darted her eyes between her sisters, “He asked for a courtship.”
Mary gasped. “He is everything I imagined in a Byronic hero—but with sense and virtue.”
Elizabeth laughed. “He would be horrified by the comparison, Mary.”
“And before we return to Longbourn,” she added with a conspiratorial smile, “Mr. Darcy means to take me to a ball—his aunt’s annual gathering.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “A London ball? With Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes!” Elizabeth replied, her smile softening. “I never thought I should look forward to such a thing, but now…I find I cannot wait.”
The sisters remained awake long into the night—talking, dreaming, and laughing. Three young women on the cusp of bright futures, their bond deeper than ever.
The morning air in London held the whispers of spring, cool against Elizabeth’s cheeks as she stepped onto the stoop of her uncle’s house on Gracechurch Street.
A carriage stood waiting, but it was not the vehicle that drew her notice.
It was the man standing beside it—tall and composed, his coat neatly brushed, a modest bouquet of violets and pale roses in his hand.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, her smile blooming as she descended the steps.
He bowed with quiet formality, then held out the flowers. “For you, Miss Elizabeth.”
She accepted them, touched. The petals were delicate, their fragrance subtle and sweet. “They are lovely. Thank you.”
“There is a park not far from here,” he said after a brief pause. “Would you…take a turn with me?”
“I should like that very much.”
The park proved a quiet haven nestled between streets already bustling with carriages and foot traffic.
The gravel path wound past budding trees and early flowers pushing through the soil.
Children’s laughter rang in the distance, and birds sang overhead—but Elizabeth scarcely heard.
The world had narrowed to the gentleman beside her and the muted cadence of their steps.
They spoke first of light things—the brightness of the morning, Jane’s upcoming wedding, the absurdity of London fashions.
Then came one of their easy silences: that companionable hush they had come to share, full of meaning yet free of pressure.
Darcy slowed, but even before he did so, Elizabeth felt the shift.
She sensed it in the way he glanced more than once to the gravel path before them.
He paused beside a low stone bench. Darcy turned to her at last, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, then paused and softened it: “Elizabeth.”
The sound of her name on his lips made her breath catch.
“I have thought of this moment a thousand times, and yet, no imagining has ever come close.”
She looked up at him, heart fluttering.
“There was a time I believed no woman could look at me without pity—or revulsion. My aunt called me marked, cursed, unworthy of affection—and worse.” He met her eyes with quiet intensity.
“But you saw me , Elizabeth. Not the mark I bear, not the name I carry—not the man society measures. Me , Elizabeth—the man beneath it all. And you offered more than civility or tolerance. Your offered kindness. Wit. Affection. You challenged me, changed me.”
Elizabeth’s eyes stung with unshed tears.
“You are the only woman who has ever looked past my outward appearance—looked upon me without flinching. The only one who has loved me—not in spite of my infirmity, but regardless of it. And I…”
He drew a breath and dropped to one knee. “I love you, Elizabeth. I always shall. Heart, soul, entirely. If you would have me—if your feelings have not changed—will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
For a moment, all she could do was look at him: this man who had stood rigid in her company, now knelt before her in vulnerable hope.
This man whose pain she had come to know—and whose heart she now held in her hands.
She could hardly speak, so full was her heart.
But she stepped closer and took his hands in hers.
“My feelings have changed. They have deepened, Mr. Darcy. I love you. I have never been more certain of anything. Yes, I will marry you.”
The breath he released was almost a laugh—soft, incredulous. He rose, bringing her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her glove was not for show. It was reverent. Grateful.
They sat on the bench for a time, speaking in low murmurs, their hands never parting. The city moved around them: ladies glanced over their shoulders, gentlemen looked on with surprise, curiosity, or disdain. But they did not notice. Not now.
They were wrapped in their own little world—two hearts, each marked in its own way: his, outwardly; hers, within. Yet both had come to be seen, known, and chosen—proof that love, when it looks beyond the surface, may heal what pride and misjudgment cannot.
The walk back to Gracechurch Street was unhurried, filled with soft laughter and quiet promises.
Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed—not from the breeze, but from the joy still blooming in her heart.
Her hand rested lightly on Darcy’s arm, and though they kept a proper distance, the fondness between them was unmistakable.
When the door to her uncle’s house opened and she stepped inside, Maria gasped. “Oh, Elizabeth—your face! You are glowing!” She darted forward and looked from one to the other. “You are engaged! Oh, you must be!”
Jane and Mary appeared in the hall behind her, both smiling in anticipation. Elizabeth looked at Mr. Darcy and he gave her the smallest of nods.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, laughter dancing in her tone. “We are engaged.”
Cheers and warm embraces followed. Jane embraced her tightly, tears in her eyes, and Mary, uncharacteristically animated, clasped both of Elizabeth’s hands. “You are to be Mrs. Darcy. You shall be mistress of Pemberley!” she exclaimed. “Oh goodness, what will Mama say?”
Maria practically danced with excitement. “Oh, how I shall enjoy carrying this news back to Meryton! They will never believe it—though they must, for I saw it with my own eyes. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy engaged! What a tale it shall be!”
Mrs. Gardiner called from the stairs as she descended, drawn by the noise. “Whatever is the matter?” Her eyes widened when she took in the scene, then softened with understanding. “Well,” she said, arching an elegant brow at her niece, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”